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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28737717">birdsong (mating call)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons'>kaermorons</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Triple Frontier (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Coming In Pants, Frottage, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:14:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,133</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28737717</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The jungle's hot, but it can get hotter.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Santiago "Pope" Garcia/Francisco "Catfish" Morales</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>birdsong (mating call)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_hot_13/gifts">ice_hot_13</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Comms have been dead for forty minutes. They’re in hour six of this 16-hour shift and the humidity has made Santiago’s hair into some kind of show-dog nightmare. Frankie has run out of jokes to make about it, which are mostly variants of crass cocker spaniel jokes. Santiago puts up with it because it’s Frankie. He puts up with most bullshit on these kinds of missions because of Frankie. Pressed together, shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, legs twined together, they can’t move from this position until the shift is up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frankie’s warm. He’s always run warm, something Santiago liked to joke was because of his simmering temper running just beneath that cool exterior. Frankie almost never lashed out, except when shit hit the fan too hard to ignore anymore. Santiago wants to bitch about it now, the body heat pressed against him while the oppressive jungle humidity left him already feeling like he was standing watch in the inside of a mouth. But he puts up with it because it’s Frankie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frankie’s also been muttering ridiculous things about the environment. He’s not a funny man, and he knows it, but Santiago doesn’t mind. He isn’t actually paying attention; he’s distracted by the tickle of Frankie’s mustache against his ear, adding another layer of heat over his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Pope, you ever think about if birds know what humidity is? You think they know things are as hot as they are? They keep screeching no matter what. Back home we have grackles. You know what grackles are, Pope?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I know what grackles are. I was stationed in San Antonio </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>with</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> you, pendejo.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Those birds like to yell no matter the temperature, time of day, time of year. So loud.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Santiago is holding back a remark about </span>
  <em>
    <span>other</span>
  </em>
  <span> things that talk no matter the temperature, time of day, time of year. He’s a patient man. He has to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now Frankie is adjusting their position, almost crawling into the dirt to get himself beneath Santiago. Like they’re cuddling up for a nap. Like they’re not in the fucking jungle being slowly braised alive. Like it’s just them, and the screeching birds aren’t there and drug kings aren’t two klicks away and the comms aren’t still in their ears even if they’re dead. Frankie’s shoulder digs into Santiago’s sternum but he can’t even bitch about it because Frankie is craning his neck and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn, but colognes always just last better on Frankie’s skin. Something about his body chemistry is able to hold onto all the shit that goes into whatever </span>
  <em>
    <span>Vetiver Musk</span>
  </em>
  <span> is. Santiago is intimately aware that they haven’t had an actual shower in weeks, just cursory wipedowns and layers and layers of deodorant, but Frankie smells like he belongs on a fucking billboard, in a crisp suit with bedroom eyes, lit by the moon. He keeps a steady breathing pattern, but all he wants to do is bury his face and breathe in Frankie’s neck until his head spins.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“The AG report said it’d rain on our watch, didn’t they?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s the jungle. Sun’s rises, it’s raining.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yeah, but are we sure? It could be just the humidity. I didn’t read the report.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“There’s a reason you get those reports, you know.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, you gonna write me up? Give me a counseling?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Frankie gives a wiggle of his hips, and Santiago snaps. It’s a testament to his military bearing that Frankie doesn’t make a noise as he’s flipped onto his back. The smirk Santiago can barely see through the dark tells him he’s played exactly into Frankie’s plans. He doesn’t care at that moment, though. He’s too wound up, and too busy kissing that smirk off Frankie’s mouth to care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frankie’s hands wrap around the top edge of Santiago’s vest, tugging him down, closer, closer. Their teeth gnashed together, the soft, muffled clicks the only thing they can hear over the rush of blood in their ears. Santiago has to keep himself propped up, too much equipment between them to be comfortably squished together. It doesn’t stop Frankie from rolling his hips up against Santiago’s, and it doesn’t stop Santiago from grinding back on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You talk too much,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Santiago breathes into Frankie’s mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You know how to shut me up,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Frankie’s gloves scratch against the little vee of skin that’s exposed on Santiago’s collarbone. It burns. Frankie’s wriggled himself under Santiago’s skin like an unscratchable itch.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yeah, I do.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They have to be quiet, in case the comms come back. They have to be quiet, because Frankie is </span>
  <em>
    <span>loud</span>
  </em>
  <span> when he wants to be. They have to be quiet, because there are heavily-armed cartel members just down the trail. He doesn’t want Frankie to swallow those needy noises down, he wants to eat him alive. He wants, he wants, he wants…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Been teasing you this whole time, gonna come in my pants like I’m twelve years old…”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Shut up.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Gonna make me sit on the rest of this watch with come in my pants?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Shut. Up.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, you </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>like</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> that—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Santiago doesn’t let him say another word, biting down hard on Frankie’s lip and letting his hips do the talking. Frankie’s noises sound strangled, dying in the back of his throat before they can hit the air. Santiago moves down to his neck, finally burying his face in that neck, that delicious fucking neck. He knows he’s imagining the sting of alcohol on his tongue, knows the cologne is nothing but a fever-dream at best, but he wants to bottle Frankie up and drink nothing else the rest of his life. He goes down onto one elbow, one hand pushing into Frankie’s hair and knocking his stupid fucking hat off and into the dirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frankie bares more of his neck and his whine rises in pitch, his hips stuttering up, up, up in time with his noises.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“P-Pope, I’m—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I said shut up.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Frankie comes in his pants like he said he would, his face just collapsing into devastated pleasure. His body gives little twitches as his nervous system sparks like a busted power line. He swallows down the rest of his noises, the dryness in his mouth replaced by Santiago’s tongue again.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Now. Stay quiet. You better not fall asleep.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Santiago rolls him back onto his front, pushing a punched-out groan into the dirt again. He puts Frankie’s hat back on his fucked-up hair. They settle side-by-side again, like nothing had happened. Even through the dark, Santiago can see the darkening bruise blooming on Frankie’s neck. It teases him out of the corner of his eye, the promise of another snap of his control. But that would be later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The comms are still dead. There’s nine hours left on watch. Frankie waits all of twenty minutes before he pipes up again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Santiago can only smile.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have fulfilled my promise. I have written for this ship. I will never think about this movie again for the rest of my life.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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